


What Happens in Reno

by Whisky (whiskyrunner)



Series: Pavlov's Bell [5]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/pseuds/Whisky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pavlov's Backstory - what happened in Reno (ie. Arthur and Eames' first time).</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens in Reno

Eames can't be certain when exactly his brain determined that Arthur was the one. It may have been the very first time he caught that first trace of Arthur's scent, that alluring spice. Maybe when he had a face to match to the scent, equally lovely. It must have happened without his conscious knowledge, anyway, because it seemed that one day he was seething about how Arthur could be so bloody prickly and unfriendly and frustrating and _obnoxiously competent_ and condescending and--

_Oh hell_ , he'd thought faintly, _I'm fucking mad about him_.

It doesn't change that Arthur is all of those things. And he seems to hate Eames especially for what he is, always acting as though Eames' mere presence is an insult.

"You smell like a fucking wet dog," Arthur hisses in his ear under the pretense of leaning over his desk to deposit a stack of file folders, when they're working out of an airless warehouse in the midsummer heat of Canberra. "Put a shirt on."

Eames should hate him. _Should_. He always means to turn down jobs from Cobb. But Cobb's usually desperate by the time Arthur agrees to let him preposition Eames, and somehow Eames can't turn down the chance to drink in Arthur's exquisite scent for a few weeks, to listen to his silky-low voice and watch his face. He never can resist.

He considers that he might just be obsessed.

 

+  
When they meet up in Reno, just the three of them, Cobb's scent has changed, and it takes Eames a day or so to figure out why. Cobb used to smell partly of Mal -- he was always at her side. And he smells more bitter now, somehow. It's been four months since she jumped and Cobb seems to have aged forty years.

Arthur, naturally, is unchanged. He's as exasperatingly curt as ever when he greets Eames.

"Hello, Eames," he says flatly, and it sounds like, _hello, fuckface_.

It isn't fair that Arthur hates him for the way he smells and what he is, it just isn't fair. There's no reason for it, because Eames doesn't find anything about Arthur's condition disagreeable. In fact, he can barely keep himself away from Arthur, the impulse to be close and touch and _smell_ is so strong. He wonders, if he weren't a werewolf, if Arthur would like him.

The conclusion he ultimately comes to is discouraging.

"Hello, darling," he purrs all the same, just to see Arthur's eyes flicker with annoyance. He turns and walks away without another word to Eames.

 

+  
The job is going exactly according to plan until it goes to hell in a handbasket, and that happens in about two seconds.

Accessing the mark's secret in this dream means heading down a river in the dead of night toward the lake where his lakehouse is situated. Everything is quiet and Eames is steering the boat and then he hears a strangled sort of shout that's part cough, and turns, and there's Mal.

_There's Mal_. And for one stupid second Eames thinks _I thought she was at home with the kids_ and then he realizes what she's holding (a dripping knife) and what that crumpled form is at her feet (Arthur) and Cobb is just staring, stammering, and Mal looks down at Arthur expressionlessly.

Eames fires three shots, because one doesn't feel like enough, and they all find their mark in her head. She drops to the deck and Eames bounds over, dropping the gun and killing the engine on his way.

"Help me!" he snaps at Cobb, who is white as a ghost and still staring at his dead wife, who is bleeding all over the deck. Her blood pools with Arthur's. Eames grabs her body up and flings her over the side, and Cobb makes a soft, stifled sound.

"Hey," Eames says, dropping to his knees at Arthur's side, heart pounding in his chest. He turns Arthur over slightly and finds him conscious, grinding his jaw, his eyes glazed with pain. His hands are clamped over his abdomen and soaked in blood. "Let me see," Eames says, pulling at one of his hands; he only gets it far enough to see that Arthur's insides are making a bid for the outside before he lets Arthur snap his hand back to his belly. Eames stares. Mal's gutted him. How could Mal do that to Arthur? His brain doesn't want to believe it, but there's Arthur, panting harshly through his teeth and looking up at Eames.

He knows it's a dream, he _knows_ , but seeing Arthur wounded like this kills him every time.

"I didn't hear her," Arthur whispers.

"Okay." Eames presses his own hands down on Arthur's, terrified that Arthur's arms might weaken enough that his intestines will start spilling out. "It's okay. You're okay, sweetheart." He glances at Cobb. "Get me my gun."

"No," Arthur says weakly.

"Yes. I'm shooting you out right now."

"We're almost there," Arthur says insistently. "If I die, the dream collapses."

"I don't care." Eames' hands are as bloodsoaked as Arthur's now. "Cobb, the fucking gun!"

"Go ... down a layer," Arthur gasps. His hands are shaking under the steady pressure of Eames'. "I have ... fifteen minutes, twenty, tops. We won't get another chance."

"Cobb, would you move your arse!" Eames barks over his shoulder.

"No," Arthur begs. "I can give you enough time, please, just--"

His eyes are swimming with agony and Cobb is just _standing there_ , staring dazedly at the place where Eames dumped Mal overboard, and the coppery-sweet smell of Arthur's blood is making Eames sick. He releases Arthur and scrambles to get the gun himself.

"No!" Arthur says sharply, trying to rise on one hand while keeping the other pressed to the wound. Eames grabs the gun up and raises it, and Cobb suddenly snaps out of it long enough to say, "Wait, Eames, don't--!"

Eames shoots. Arthur slumps passively to the deck.

The dream starts crumbling at once. Water sloshes violently, the deck starts to list and groan, and Eames doesn't wait to see what Cobb does. He just shoots himself out.

Arthur has a hand pressed to his stomach when he wakes, but he snatches it away as soon as he lays eyes on Eames.

"You asshole!" he shouts. The fury is bristling off him. "We could have had this!"

Eames stares at him disbelievingly. "Are you kidding me? You just had half your guts hanging out! I was doing you a favour!"

"When I want a favour from you, I'll ask for it!"

Cobb is awake now, still a bit dazed. He's gripping his totem as he says, "We need to get out of here."

"What the fuck was that?" Eames snaps, rounding on him.

"He's waking up," Arthur says suddenly, looking at the mark. His eyelids are flickering. Cobb grabs the PASIV and starts packing it up rapidly.

"Split up," he says. "Every man for himself."

The mark jolts awake. "What--" he starts, and then, wide-eyed, he reaches for his cell phone and shouts, "I'm calling security!"

Cobb hits him. Eames doesn't stick around to see what happens. He flees, and in the stairwell he has to grapple briefly with two security guards before hopping the rail onto the next flight of stairs down and racing to the lobby. He doesn't stick around to see if Cobb and Arthur get out safely. He knows Arthur will.

That burning resentment in Arthur's eyes when he'd first woken up follows him all the way to the street, where he blends easily into the crowd.

 

+  
He finds Arthur in a bar at a casino that night.

They're still supposed to be split up, but Eames wanders over and slides onto the stool at his side anyway. Arthur, slumped over a glass of amber liquid, barely registers him.

"How are you?" Eames asks quietly.

"I cost us that job," Arthur says tonelessly.

Eames expected more blame to be flung his way. He doesn't expect Arthur to blame himself. Somehow, it hurts more.

"Of course you didn't," he says.

"I didn't hear her." Arthur is staring into his shotglass, but he looks up at Eames then, and his gaze is helpless. "I should have heard her behind me."

"Don't be silly. You couldn't have, the motor was running--"

"You would have heard her," Arthur says.

It's true. Eames falls silent. With the wind whipping past his ears at the fore of the boat it had been impossible, but had he been where Arthur was standing, he would have heard her coming.

Arthur buries his head in his hands.

"I cost us that pay-off," he says hollowly. "What's the point of even being like this if it doesn't stop me from botching jobs?"

"Let me buy you the next one," Eames says. It's all he can do.

He gets only a few drinks for himself, just enough to take the edge off the day's agitation. Arthur, though, just keeps downing shot after shot, drowning his self-loathing in alcohol.

"How do you live like this?" he asks Eames blearily.

"A thief?" Eames says, nonplussed.

"No. Different."

Eames feels for him, suddenly and powerfully. He knows at once what Arthur means.

He checks to make sure nobody is listening in, then says quietly, "It's not so bad."

"You're the only other person I know who isn't ..."

He's obviously about to say _human_ , but stops himself, frowning.

"Normal?" Eames supplies, and Arthur turns his head to glance at him.

"Yeah," he says. "Normal."

His shoulders hunch around his glass as if it's a warming fire. He breathes out slowly, and Eames' chest gives a funny twist.

"Arthur," he says. "I'm going to take you back to my hotel room and fuck you."

Arthur looks at him.

"You don't have to be alone, you know," Eames says quietly.

And Arthur says, "Okay."

 

+  
The walk back to Eames' hotel is a blur. Eames is drunk, a little -- not nearly as much as Arthur, but enough that this is probably a bad idea. But with Arthur so willing to reach out, Eames simply can't resist. He's been aching for this for months. Years. Every fibre of his body wants this.

The second they stumble into Eames' room together, he grabs Arthur in a kiss and feels the point man stiffen in surprise.

"God," Eames growls. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted you."

"Yeah?" Arthur starts working at Eames' shirt, his fingers deft in spite of his inebriation. Eames imagines he could get drunk and perform brain surgery efficiently. When he kisses back, however, it's clumsy, like he's half holding himself back.

"You been with a man before?" Eames asks, unbuckling his own trousers and shoving them down.

"Yeah."

He pushes Arthur down onto the bed and straddles him, yanking his shirt off over his head. Arthur stretches out beautifully, his stomach lean and firm and whole, not damaged. Eames runs a hand over it just to remind himself. Not real. The wound wasn't real. This is real. Arthur's light musk in his nose is real.

He pushes his own pants down partway, just far enough to free his cock, and strokes it lightly. Arthur looks, and Eames smells the spike of fear-adrenaline coming off him.

"We don't have to," Eames murmurs, suddenly guilty, leaning down to kiss his throat. "We don't ..."

Arthur arches into him, stretching again, and says breathlessly, "Could you -- fuck me?"

A wild shudder runs down Eames' spine like he's about to change. Any remaining vestige of control leaves him right then. Sitting back, he unbuckles Arthur's belt, unzips him and flips him onto his stomach roughly.

"Wait," Arthur says abruptly when Eames grabs his trousers, suddenly sober, " _stop_ , Eames--!"

Eames has already yanked his pants down to his knees. Arthur immediately screws his hands into the bedcovers and Eames just stares, catching his breath. The light isn't on but he can see, they can both see just fine, but he can't be seeing this right...

"Fuck," Arthur hisses, letting himself unclench, and slowly, his tail draws itself out of his pant leg as if shy. "Fuck," Arthur whispers.

"Hello," Eames breathes, running the tail between his fingers. It's solid and soft and warm and it smells of fur and Arthur. It flexes a little in his hand, a tiny flinch. "Arthur."

"Sorry." Arthur's eyes are squeezed shut tight. He drops his head to the covers, burying his face. " _Fuck_."

Slowly, Eames peels Arthur's pants the rest of the way off and then Arthur is laid bare underneath him, lean and perfect and wonderful-smelling and Eames pushes his thighs apart, silently thrilled at the way the tail sweeps down bashfully.

"You have a tail."

"Just--" Arthur's voice is a croak. "Just forget it, okay, just fuck me."

Eames climbs off the bed to find the lube in a pocket of his suitcase. It takes him a minute, and when he returns, the tail is still there. Real. He drops the lube and kneels between Arthur's spread legs, picking up his tail and stroking it. The fur is silver, ringed with black in little tabby stripes. It flinches minutely on every stroke as if afraid Eames will hurt or damage it, and he smells Arthur's fear-scent climbing.

"Stop -- touching," Arthur says hoarsely, after a minute. "Please." His tail flicks to the side as soon as Eames releases it.

He picks up the lube and dribbles it onto his hand, letting his first finger rub right under the base of Arthur's tail, just above his tight little hole. He feels Arthur's muscles quiver, a shiver that runs right down the length of his tail, and he makes a soft mewling sound.

"Have you ever ..."

Eames means to finish "shown Cobb this before," but Arthur breathlessly blurts out, "No, not -- not for real, but I have a vibrator I've tried a couple times ..."

Eames doesn't intend to clear up the misunderstanding. He leans down, hoists Arthur's waist up with one arm and says next to his ear, "Tell me if I hurt you."

And then he slides two fingers in, because he wants Arthur so desperately it's burning him up and he _can't wait_ , he's waited for years. Arthur immediately cries out, and Eames drops his head, burying his nose between Arthur's shoulderblades.

"Too much?"

"No -- no, give me more, please," Arthur begs, and some part of Eames knows that the alcohol is screwing with Arthur's ability to gauge pain -- or maybe he just doesn't feel pain like a normal person, which would explain a lot, actually, so Eames just starts fucking his fingers in and out of Arthur's hole, stretching him hurriedly and gracelessly. The tail thrashes, occasionally batting Eames by accident, and Arthur continues to make low, harsh cries. This doesn't stop Eames from adding a third finger once he's managed to relax slightly.

"Still alright?" he asks, somewhat callously in the face of Arthur's obvious discomfort.

Later he'll look back and realize it's not quite himself at the wheel anymore; not his human self, anyway. He'll mount Arthur whether he's ready or not; so it's a good thing Arthur hisses, "Just fuck me, Eames, shit--"

Eames needs no second bidding. He shoves Arthur's thighs apart even further, grabs his tail out of the way, lines his cock up and forces the head in. Arthur's entire body goes rigid and he practically snarls, tearing at the sheets when Eames starts to push himself in deep, deeper.

"You can take it," Eames tells him, barely recognizing his own voice. "Relax, you can take it."

"You're too big--" Arthur spits, eyes streaming.

"Just take it, I know you can," Eames pants. He bottoms out and starts to rock his hips, fucking into the heat of Arthur. He's so tight, squeezing Eames' cock so exquisitely Eames is nearly out of his mind. He loses it, thrusting mindlessly into Arthur over and over. Images race wildly through his brain. Arthur, laid out under him. Teeth scraping his neck, engulfing his nape, holding and marking him. Pinning him with fur and muscle and huge paws grasping at his waist, clutching and clawing. With every beat of Eames' heart the word crashes through his skull: _mine, mine, mine_.

The urge to come settles over him and it's never been so powerful. It roars in his ears and he pounds Arthur mercilessly, grunting, not interested whatsoever in dragging this out. He wants to come, he wants to fill Arthur with his seed, leave him reeking of Eames so that everyone knows who he belongs to, stop him up with his knot to hold it all in, the way he never has with anyone else. He's never felt the urge to claim anyone like this before. Arthur's tail is rigid in Eames' hand -- all his muscles are rigid -- he pants sobbing breaths into the coverlet, pushing back tentatively into Eames.

Encouraged, Eames growls, releases his tail to lift his hips with both hands and screw into Arthur at an even better angle. His fingers dig into Arthur's skin hard enough to leave bruises, and Eames is pleased with that. Arthur's tail lashes.

"Fuck you," he gasps lowly. " _Fuck_ you, Eames."

For some reason, that's the only thing that reaches through to Eames. It drifts through the fog he's in and stalls his urgency to mate momentarily. Only momentarily, but it's all he needs to realize what he's doing. Shocked at himself, he pulls out swiftly and in two quick strokes he's coming over Arthur's back, knot glands swelling under his fingers. Not inside Arthur.

Thank Christ, not inside Arthur.

He kneels there, dazed, coming back to himself -- he just tried to _mate_ Arthur, for Christ's sake -- and slowly, the line of Arthur's tail starts to lose its stiffness.

Eames slicks his hand hurriedly with come and rolls him over. Arthur's hard, and to Eames' surprise it only takes a few jerks to bring him off. Arthur grabs his wrist, like he doesn't trust Eames touching him so intimately, but his eyes roll up and he groans noisily, his whole body falling slack.

As their heartrates slow down gradually, Eames wonders what the hell he's supposed to say. Should he apologize? He's -- alright, he's _in love_ with this man, he's fucking _crazy_ about this man, and he nearly just tore him in half because his brain mistook Arthur for a female werewolf. For a ... mate.

Is this how it always is, between a werewolf and his mate? Nobody ever told Eames it would be like this. He's horrified at himself. What must Arthur think of him?

His hands are shaking slightly. He wants to lie down with Arthur, bury his nose in Arthur's hair, breathe the scent of him all night long and stroke his tail; and he fears he's just ruined everything.

And then he realizes. Arthur is already asleep.

Eames breathes out a long, slow breath. He wipes off his hands and settles down cautiously at Arthur's side.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, smoothing back Arthur's hair.

This is all he's ever wanted to do, and he can't ever do it again.

Arthur's tail curls up in sleep until the tip is brushing Eames' other wrist. He pretends that's forgiveness.

 

+  
In the morning, Arthur dresses stiffly, obviously pained. Eames watches him tuck his tail down his trouser leg, flattening the length of it out expertly.

"Don't -- don't tell anyone," Arthur says to the floor.

"This never happened," Eames vows.

He wishes it never had.

They don't speak again until the Fischer job.


End file.
